


no end to this game with matches

by Liberalia



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Arguing, Brief appearance of C, Competitive sex, Cunnilingus, Episode: s12e02 Spyfall Part 2, F/M, Inappropriate Workplace Behaviour i.e: Treason; Sex; Destruction of Property; etc., Multiple Orgasms, Orgasm Delay/Denial, PIV Sex, Psychic seduction, Self-induced, Smut, The Doctor stress-tests the Master’s multitasking skills, Time Lord Telepathy (Doctor Who), no beta we die like time lords, some angst crept in alas!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-23
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:08:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24713620
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liberalia/pseuds/Liberalia
Summary: "The old offer still stands, you know,” the Master said softly “we rule, half the universe for you, half for me, to do with as we please.” He slid his hand over her mouth before she could reply. “Your half can have the Earth.” There was a dreadful smile on his face. “And mine can have Gallifrey. No - don’t answer me yet.”The Doctor has a run-in with the Master at MI6 while researching the Silver Lady.
Relationships: The Doctor/The Master (Doctor Who), Thirteenth Doctor/The Master (Dhawan)
Comments: 55
Kudos: 118





	1. Tried sweet talk, tried dynamite

**Author's Note:**

> This ends where Spyfall part II ends, so…not happily. The fic/chapter titles are from Dessa’s Matches to Paper Dolls, which I listened to on repeat while writing this.

The Doctor was crouching by a filing cabinet, searching through drawer after drawer of implausible reports claiming to be of ‘ _Beings from other dimensions!!!’_ and wondering why the Master had bothered to collect any of this obvious drivel in the first place; it seemed a bit too organised to just be for cover. She sighed, stacking up what she’d already read and opening the next drawer - and froze, feeling the first ripples of an impending paradox.

Not to mention the sound of voices coming down the corridor - no chance of sneaking out without being spotted, then. She started cramming the incriminating files back in the drawer.

What was C doing coming to work at three in the - oh, yes. Spies. They were annoying that way. (At least she’d had the sense to insist that Ada and Noor stayed safe(ish) in the Master’s Tardis. They were probably busy working their way through his biscuit stash.)

She glanced around the office, which was: cluttered, small-windowed, littered with dreadful little lamps - and entirely devoid of good hiding places. This established, the Doctor dove around the desk and into the footwell, reassuring herself that at least C had no reason to use “O’s” desk.

The Doctor folded herself up, leant against the side of the obnoxiously small space, and settled in to wait them out. She sighed exasperatedly. Usually you could count on humanity being keen to stay away from their workplaces at night; it was one of the things she liked about them. It gave a lot of opportunities for discreet information gathering to people who didn’t need as much sleep.

She stilled, realising that another such person was currently standing in the doorway, looking into the room. She could just see the tips of his shoes: shining black leather with patterns etched around the toes; nothing like what he’d worn in the Outback.

Why did the Master _have_ to be here, on the one night she’d come to find out what data he’d been using MI6 to collect? Did he have some sort of alert set up? If not, if he was just here for work - had she shut all the filing cabinet drawers properly?

“Yes, C, and if you’ll just _wait_ for me to look it up-” the Master said, walking over to the desk, voice jarringly mild and agreeable despite the irritable words. Why did she always forget how good he was at shifting his affect to suit his various roles?

Legs now visible. Wearing a suit - rather better-fitting than the one he’d conned her out of. Bastard. The Doctor pressed herself harder against the modesty panel and hoped he didn’t-. Oh. Bugger. He was sitting down. And wheeling his chair forwards, blocking her in. She had to suppress a twitch at the Master’s sudden closeness; the intensifying pressure of his consciousness on her shields made controlling the reflex to reach out, make herself known, far more difficult.

Anticipating the overpowering smell of “O’s” lemon cologne, the Doctor held her breath, wary of coughing, but no such odour materialised; the Master just smelt like himself. She breathed in deeply, rolling the scents over her tongue - artron energy, smoke, electricity, and the faint, infuriatingly familiar, whiff of ozone from the TCE.

It occurred to her, irritatingly, as she listened to C and “O” talk about…something spy related, the Doctor didn’t care, that the reason the Master had worn such strong cologne - which must have offended his nose as much as hers - must have been to keep her from knowing him for, well, _himself_ as soon as she inhaled.

Perhaps she had, if only subconsciously. It would explain the strange pull she had felt towards him - the Doctor didn’t normally bother to keep in touch with people long-distance, especially not people she had only met once, but she’d kept texting “O” through more than one regeneration. Not really her usual style.

Barely restraining the urge to fidget, the Doctor checked her shields again. She had battened down her psychic presence as much as she was able (she had a lot less experience lurking than the Master did) but she’d thought she should be pretty hard to notice, unless someone was specifically looking. Or was, y’know. Sitting three inches from the end of her nose. The Doctor squinted at what little she could see of him. He didn’t _seem_ like he was aware of her.

The Master might not be able to sense her, but she could certainly feel _him_. His psychic presence, far more individual than a face or a voice, slid over her like dark water. The smooth, cool weight of him pressed soothingly through even the thickest parts of her shields, until she felt almost drowned in him. Despite - or because of - her lingering fury, the Doctor found herself drinking it in, her posture shifting in reaction.

Realising she was pressing her thighs together a little _too_ hard, the Doctor tried to relax her muscles. Because _that_ was definitely just the result of being cramped under this desk. Not anything to do with the fact that she was just going to have to sit here, bathed in the Master’s presence, for the foreseeable future, when they had just had several very…tense…altercations. Rage _was_ wonderfully stimulating, after all.

Honestly, the whole thing had been typical of the Master: he melodramatically flew into a rage and choked her over a nine hundred foot drop…without pushing her over, bruising her neck, or even stopping her talking.

Tipping her head back, the Doctor remembered the cool wind in her hair, the firm pressure of his fingers, the way the knowledge of the yawning drop had thrilled through her in counterpoint to the burn of victory in her veins…all coming after real psychic contact, intimate enough for a proper conversation, for the first time in - too long. Far too long.

It was entirely natural that she would be…frustrated, her brain and body fizzing with it- because he was infuriating! Treacherous, deceiving - and the Doctor still _wanted_ _to_ -. Anyway. Self control. Yes. If she was lucky, there was no reason for the Master to find out she had ever even been here.

Naturally, that was when the Master’s knee brushed against her shoulder as he bent to open a drawer. Maybe if she stayed very, very still he wouldn’t notice?

He jumped. Well, there was that thin hope gone.

“O? Are you alright?”

“Yes! I’m fine.” The Master replied, voice harsh and irritated. That is to say, sounding much more like himself.

‘Mask slipping a bit?’ the Doctor thought, smirking a little. Her amusement was abruptly cut off when the Master’s knee pressed back against her shoulder - slow and deliberate, the silky weight of his presence suddenly intensifying, drying her mouth.

The Doctor tried to shift away, and the Master followed, until she was pressed hard against the back of the small space, their bodies still touching. She shoved him back, but her hand lingered on his knee, touching-. No. The Doctor had made up her mind; she was stronger than this. She jerked her hand away, flexing it as she dropped it to her side, trying to drive out thoughts of the warmth of his skin.

It was…unfortunate, how strongly she was reacting to being near the Master again. Earlier, the knowledge of his impending arrest (not to mention his horrifying uniform) had helped the Doctor restrain her baser impulses; she was starting to suspect C’s presence, though trying, was not going to prove an equally effective deterrent.

A knock on her shields. _Contact._ (Yes! No.)

There was absolutely nothing to be gained by talking to him; exchanging any information that could actually help her would risk a temporal paradox. It would make the most sense to ignore him and try and escape at the first opportunity, unseen by any MI6 employees. To avoid giving the Master further access to her mind.

_Contact,_ the Doctor responded. Opening a link to the Master always ached a little, like stretching old scar tissue. The lingering residue from the old wound where their bond had been torn away made it both easier to talk, and more uncomfortable; it made it far harder to pretend away what they once had had.

(It was not really like an old wound, the Doctor knew; that would have disappeared long since, burnt away in the fires of one regeneration or another. More like a connecting passage between two neighbouring houses, once one - long ago bricked up and plastered over; well-concealed but always there, despite all appearances to the contrary.)

_What could possibly be so important you’re willing to risk crossing your own timeline?_ There was an odd, feverish note to the Master’s voice. (“I bring news from home _,”_ he’d said.)

_Mind your own business,_ the Doctor responded, fighting against the instinct to just relax into the sensation, the familiar hum and shiver of a mind both like and unlike her own.

_I rather thought I was, considering you’re scrabbling through my files and hiding under my desk. Looking for anything in particular?_

_Just looking._

_You sound like one of your humans. How you can endure them I really don’t know._

_You’re right. It’s a much better idea to hang around people from another dimension when you have absolutely no idea what they really are or what they want,_ she responded sarcastically. It was meant as a riposte, nothing more, but the Master went unnaturally, perfectly still - both psychically and physically.

_**What do you know?** _

That was…oddly intense. The Master certainly hadn’t seemed to care much about the Kasaavin earlier. The Doctor reflexively pushed forward a little, trying to better read his reaction, but his shields resisted her.

“O? Are you listening to me?” C’s voice sounded, dulled by the wood behind her.

The Master twitched back into motion, still radiating tension down their link. “Yes, sir, sorry.”

_About the Kasaavin?_ The Doctor could feel him relax a little in response to her question, settling down again.

… _Yes. About_ them _._ What had _that_ really been about?

_Are you trying to cause a paradox to trap me here?_

_Don’t be ridiculous- Oh, never mind. It doesn’t matter anyway._

_Why MI6?_

_Well, I’d already done politics._ It was too glib even for him, and the Master must have sensed the Doctor’s disbelief, continuing: _It’s not like you haven’t spent a long,_ long _time as an agent of a shadowy government agency yourself._ His tone somehow managed to achieve ‘mocking’ and ‘hurt’ simultaneously.

What _was_ the Master talking about? The Celestial Intervention Agency? UNIT? Did she care?

The energy from their reopened connection was washing through her, making her heated and restless, but the Doctor couldn’t move to get away from him, distract herself, burn it off. The walk to the Eiffel Tower in the cold night air had been a great help in composing herself earlier. No such luxury to be found here, trapped with the temptation of physical contact literally inches from her grasp.

Without the safe distraction of movement she was left pressing her thighs together again, breath coming quick, every muscle tightened in readiness. Digging her fingernails into her palms, the Doctor closed her eyes and forced herself to relax. Right. Self control. Yes. Wonderful stuff.

_Run out of questions? Or just_ distracted? There was a distinct note of smugness to that, and the Doctor wondered if the Master had sensed her weakening resolve. She didn’t dare answer until she had herself under better control. It would give too much away.

Apparently getting bored with waiting for the Doctor’s response, the Master reached out and deepened their connection, slowly going from one small point of contact to almost wrapping himself around her; only their inner shields keeping them apart. It was dizzying, glorious - and when had she dropped her outer shields?

The empty air between them sang and sparked with the intensity of their psychic contact; without any corresponding physical touch to earth it, the energy just built up and up, uncontrolled. The Doctor yearned to ground it, to press her skin to the Master’s, to let it sink into her flesh and bones and warm her from within. It would be stupid, selfish, self-destructive - and she would love every minute of it.

It was - it was… Damn self-control, anyway.

The Doctor finally realised the full potential of the situation, and resolved to exploit it. Why not have some fun, after all? Silently, she moved forwards, running her hands up the Master’s legs, and coming to rest on his knees. Psychic energy jolted up her nerves, sliding crackling under her skin and starting to bind them into closer alignment. Beginning a feedback loop. She savoured the feel of the smooth wool under her hands, the warmth of the Master’s skin under it, feeling his muscles tense up in wariness. Quite right.

_What are you doing?_ It was a true thought now, rather than the faux-speech of more limited, cautious psychic contact; it should have been easier to read, but the Master was still holding himself back enough that the main thing the Doctor was getting was annoyance - only a thin flicker of desire bleeding through underneath.

Ignoring him, the Doctor found the inseam of his trousers with her thumbs and started to rub in slow circles, moving steadily upwards. His legs jerked apart on pure, uncontrolled reflex, allowing her to slide stealthily between them. The Master tried to snap them closed against her, and his knees hit her shoulders where they wedged them open. The mixture of lust and irritation _that_ resulted in rolled prickling over her skin, raising goosebumps. The Master always did like to have the upper hand. Well. They _did_ say not getting what you wanted strengthened character.

The Doctor smirked in happy anticipation and pressed her mouth to his inseam, breathing out warmly onto the Master’s skin through the fabric and smoothing her hands a little higher up his thighs. The Master shuddered a little, voice wavering slightly. She could feel how hard he was already against her cheek - and couldn’t help being a little impressed that he was still managing to talk to C all through this. Talk about multitasking.

She grinned against him, triumphant and delighted, and pressed closer, mouth _almost-_ the Master’s hand was in her hair, wrapping it around his fingers and pulling gloriously, his skin sliding warm against her scalp, his pleasure soaking into her - and pushing the Doctor firmly away, carefully only touching her hair so as to snap the physical link.

_No._

The Doctor hissed in frustration - too loudly - and they both stilled, waiting to see if C had noticed.

Apparently not. The Doctor twisted away, wanting to get her mouth on him again, but the Master’s fingers only tightened in her hair, holding her in place. So she turned her head against his grip and pressed her mouth against his inner wrist, scraping her teeth gently over the sensitive skin and feeling the drum of the Master’s pulse quicken under her tongue.

The jolt from the direct skin to skin contact shocked right through her body, intensifying the building ache between her legs, sending her hearts pounding hard enough that the Doctor could feel them thump right down to her knees.

The Master’s hand was shaking a little now, shields cracking open at last, his lust and pleasure spilling burning over her, heating her skin. It cried out for contact, yearning to be touched, and the Doctor involuntarily moved to satisfy it, pressing her side more firmly against his leg, just about managing to restrain the impulse to put her hand between her legs. The Doctor was desperately aware of her own breathing, hideously too loud.

The feeling of the Master’s arousal was hot against her awareness, sharp and focused in a way she’d almost forgotten about - in her current body it was more diffuse but also more persistent, harder to fully satisfy.

_Can’t you get rid of him somehow?_ The Doctor asked. If they were going to do this, they might as well do it properly. He’d hardly touched her yet - and still, she thought if she had to wait much longer she might spontaneously regenerate right there and then.

The Doctor pressed a sense of this through his wavering shields. The Master had never been one for restraint - and he didn’t disappoint, a potent sensation of impatient desire mingled with intense smugness washing through her.

_Stop gloating._ The Doctor bit his wrist firmly in penalty.

_With you kneeling at my feet, frantic for me to touch you? More an entirely natural sense of triumph than_ gloating _, I would have thought._

_What’s all this about_ me _being frantic? You’re so desperate for me I can hardly breathe under the weight of it._

_You think I can’t feel you squirming around down there pressing your legs together like it could ever be enough to satisfy you? I’m going to_ ruin _-_

“O! What’s taking you so long? This is hardly complicated!” C snapped.

“It’s taking longer than I thought it would - I _could_ send you an email, like I _suggested_ -“ the Master started, voice brusque and breathless, entirely altered from when he first entered the room.

“If I wanted an email, I would have asked for one! Shockingly, we do not employ you solely so you can indulge your obsessions on MI6’s time!”

_In trouble with the boss?_

_Shut up._

“Excuse me, sir, but something’s come up…”

Somehow, unbelievably, there were now _more people in the room. Talking_. The Doctor let her head thump down despairingly on his knee and seriously contemplated tearing her hair out in frustration. The way the Master was radiating amusement at her expense was not exactly helping.

“Yes, I’ll- I’m sorry, sir, can anyone else feel something…weird…in here?” The new voice sounded appalled to even be suggesting such a thing.

The air was thick and charged with their presence, heavy and languid with the inner reaching out of each to the other. Apparently they were being shameless enough that even the humans could tell.

“Probably aliens,” the Master answered, his tone grave.

An awkward silence ensued. The Doctor had to breathe slowly and carefully to restrain the urge to cackle.

“Mmm,” said the unfamiliar voice, radiating secondhand embarrassment. “Sir, if you could come with me? It is rather urgent.”

_Good grief,_ she said, after their footsteps had retreated down the corridor.

“Imagine actually having to work here,” the Master responded aloud, dry, and she grinned, feeling his amusement mingling warmly with hers for a moment, before she remembered - this wasn’t what they were anymore. The Master had made himself very clear, after all; they were not friends.

Picking up on her darkening mood, he started to push back from the desk. The Doctor hooked her arms around his legs, using his momentum to drag her out of the footwell before scrambling up to get at him, even as the Master leant down to try and pull her into his lap.

They collided in the middle, kissing, too hard, too impatient, not nearly enough. The Doctor’s torso was half in his lap as the Master bent down to reach her, his hands running down her sides to untuck her shirt and slide underneath, stroke her bare skin as she devoured his mouth.

Kissing him felt exactly as it always did: frighteningly like something the Doctor was born knowing how to do, had been made for; like she’d found herself exactly where she should be, a key fitting into a lock. The feeling sank under the Doctor’s skin without effort, every time, and made her unwise.

_Door!_ The Master sent, still kissing her.

_What?_ The Doctor asked, hazily, as his hands reached her breasts under her shirt.

_Lock. The. Door!_ The Master responded, punctuating his words by scraping his thumbnails over her nipples, making the Doctor gasp into his mouth.

_Ah, right, yes. Be a bit awkward if they came back._

It took a bit of fumbling, as the Doctor was entirely unwilling to rip herself away from the Master long enough to do the thing properly, but she eventually got her sonic : A, on the right setting; and B, actually pointed at the door. Admittedly, it _was_ after a few false starts that _really_ vibrated some filing cabinets, the death of at least one lamp…and that hard drive was probably never going to be right again. But! Finally they both heard the wonderful sound of the door lock engaging.

_Victory at last!_ The Master sent, and undid the last few buttons on her shirt. His hands slid round to her back, running up her spine.

_Antigravity bra? Bit utilitarian._

_Some of us favour practicality over looks, you know,_ the Doctor responded, shrugging off both bra and shirt in an efficient movement.

_The rest of us can tell._


	2. But I sleepwalk back to the battlesite

She bit down on his lower lip - hard - and he swallowed a groan. “Come _here_ ,” the Master gasped, sliding his mouth down her jaw and panting against her throat. It sounded just close enough to a plea that the Doctor climbed into his lap and straddled him, even as he pulled at her, both hands on her lower back, dragging her closer, closer.

It was far too easy to settle back into the familiar battle - predating any other - of trying to make the other _react_ , crack and break and _beg_. Admit to the greater need, the greater weakness.

The Doctor couldn’t quite keep from hooking one of her legs round the back of the chair, pressing them properly together, the awareness of the Master’s mind against hers intensifying almost to the point of drowning out everything else. It was so _hard_ not to react to him against her at last, to not moan or cry out or make any other sound of pleasure, as unnatural as not gasping at the shock of cold water on her skin.

The Master laughed a little breathlessly against her skin and bit the tendon at the side of her neck, making the Doctor shudder and grind forward, bracing her hands on his shoulders so she could rock against him. The Master’s hands were warm on her hip and back, helping her move, and his pleasure, his need was mingling with hers with each roll of her hips, and she - she _couldn’t_ \- the Doctor leant down and pressed her face into the curve of his neck, rubbing her cheek against his skin, trying to settle herself a little, get some control back.

Unfortunately, the Master was swiftly relearning her, identifying which of the old tricks still worked, his lips moving down her neck, searching out the spot which always made her gasp. The Master found it, used his teeth, and the Doctor writhed against him, turning her head to try and catch his mouth so that he couldn’t send her over the edge too quickly.

“Ah-ah,” the Master said into her mouth, dragging her back by her hair so he could bite and suck on her throat again, rocking up into her as he did so.

The Master was pressing his lust, his bright-hot pleasure into her; her outer shields were almost non-existent at this point, everything bleeding together - the Doctor could feel him _enjoying_ her, and it was glorious, too much, shoved her into climax after barely a minute’s contact.

The Doctor’s fingernails dug into his shoulders almost hard enough to draw blood as she rode it out, gasping out what felt almost more like relief than pleasure - the final culmination of the day’s tension and plotting.

 _A bit quick off the mark, aren’t you?_ The Master sent, grinning into her neck as the Doctor flopped over him bonelessly, panting. The scent of smoke was stronger now - it must be coming off his hair, not his clothes.

 _Hair trigger this time around? Or is it just me?_ The smugness coming off him was almost unbearable.

“Shut up,” the Doctor gasped, still vibrating slightly.

“No, no, I remember some fine talk,” the Master said, voice low and amused, “about who was more desperate, do you-?“

“Shut _up_!” The Doctor snarled, digging her hands into his hair and pulling roughly, tipping his head back so she could kiss him again. It was horrifyingly good, as usual; she couldn’t help wishing that the Master was a little less ridiculously _satisfying._ Then she might be able to scrape together enough willpower to stop doing this sort of thing.

There were still little shudders going through the Master as they kissed, and she realised - he hadn’t come yet; she was feeling him _ache_ with the weight and heat of her, feeling it - him - starting to send her up again almost before she’d had a chance to come down. The Doctor shifted her weight, beginning to move against him again, trying to soothe that dreadful ache - when the Master lurched to his feet without warning, shoving her onto the desk and sending folders clattering to the ground around her.

“Hey!” The Doctor yelped, grabbing hold of the Master to stabilise herself - and realising that he was still wearing his shirt. That he was, in fact, still entirely and appallingly clothed. “Get this off,” she said, reaching out, fully intending to tear it off him.

“Don’t you dare,” the Master snapped, fending off her hands and stepping back. “ _I_ _’ll_ do it.”

“Get your trousers off too, then,” the Doctor said, scrabbling at her fly. He rolled his eyes and ignored her, though she was relieved to see at least the shirt gone by the time she’d finished yanking her remaining clothes off, mutual impatience crackling between them all the while.

Stepping in close to her again, the Master slid his hands slowly up her legs, before shoving the Doctor’s thighs apart with an eagerness bordering on violence, forcing them obscenely wide - and going to his knees before her.

“ _Oh_ ,” the Doctor said, a little shocked, as he leant forward and pressed his lips to the crease of her thigh, stubble scraping the fine skin there. She hadn’t expected _this_.

“That _is_ my-“

“Not the name joke again,” the Doctor said darkly, “it’s more than worn out it’s wel- _ah_!” - the Master sank his teeth into her inner thigh - “ _Come_!”

“But how _can_ I,” the Master responded, feigning misunderstanding - and the Doctor could feel him _smirking_ against her quickly-bruising skin, the _bastard, why_ did she like it so much - “with this relentless criticism? This ceaseless heckling? _Must_ you,” he spread her open with his thumbs, turned his head to put his mouth on her, to speak against her, “ruin _all_ my pleasure?” The Doctor made a faint sound and grabbed onto his shoulders, fingers digging in.

‘Yes, because your pleasures are usually _awful_ ,' is what the Doctor _wanted_ to say, but all she could manage was an utterly humiliating noise when he licked from her entrance to her clit in a smooth stroke.

Clearly determined to have the last word, the Master set himself to learning her as if planning to write a thesis on the topic - finding out what she liked, how best to work on her, and generally going about the thing with what (the Doctor felt) was a truly gratuitous degree of enthusiasm.

It would be maddeningly good by itself - but the Doctor could feel his _reactions_ , too, how much it was affecting him, his sincere enjoyment of what he was doing, and the heat of the Master’s triumph at what it was doing to _her_. The bridge of his nose was pressing into her, she realised hazily - and when had both her hands ended up twisted in his hair?

The Doctor’s muscles were trembling, her thighs clenched on his shoulders as she tried to restrain the need to squirm, to grind against him, to-. A small moan escaped her, and she bit her tongue, hard, so as not to make any more noise, not to come far too soon - the Doctor wanted to savour this; make it last.

Unfortunately, the Master apparently had other ideas. He pressed a finger into her, rubbing firmly back and forth inside her, and the Doctor came on a quick, hot, infuriatingly unsatisfying burn of pleasure, curled over him, biting down on her palm to muffle her cries.

“You really _are_ desperate, aren’t you. I’ve never known you to have such little stamina,” the Master goaded, voice breathy and excited; as if he’d left her any choice, as if he hadn’t basically _insisted_ on her coming.

“You don’t - need to hold off - when you can _\- keep_ doing it,” the Doctor panted, voice wavering with aftershocks, hearts pounding so hard she could feel her pulse in her fingertips, as the Master dragged his mouth over the new bruise on her thigh. “That’s _real_ stamina.”

Sitting back on his heels, the Master looked up at her and grinned, wide and sharp and entirely too pleased with himself, and the Doctor had to shut her eyes against it, against him, against the old familiar pain of ‘We could have this, all the time, why won’t you just-’ She shoved the thought away.

When the Doctor opened her eyes and met his gaze, the Master’s expression had dimmed and grown strange, oddly serious. She thought of the look on his face when she’d asked him what he wanted at the Exposition, and considered asking him - what? What question could she possibly ask that would do any good, or that he would answer honestly? No. She was finished with reaching out to the Master. Finished with wasting her energy, always hoping for some improvement that never came.

So instead of trying to talk, the Doctor settled herself more firmly on the desk and tugged on his hair, trying to pull him up against her, breathing in that smell of smoke.

“I might have known,” - the Master said, speaking as he stood - “that you would get multiple orgasms before I did. You always have all the luck.”

The Doctor rolled her eyes at his griping, while her hands dealt with his buttons and shoved his trousers and pants down, hooking a leg behind him and pulling him closer - never mind about getting the Master properly undressed, she wanted him _now_.

One of the Master’s hands wound itself in her hair as he settled himself against her, the other finding her hip and stroking it slowly. He leant forward and looked down at her intently, making a dull throb form in her nipples, between her legs. The Doctor closed her eyes for a moment, trying to hide from his expression. It was an entirely futile attempt: they were still entwined, her awareness of him inescapable - all that intense, furious attention that the Doctor always tried not to think of, because she wanted it too much.

The Doctor ran her hands down his back and drew him a little closer, wrapping her legs around him. And there the Master was at last, where he belonged, the perfect fit, and she couldn’t restrain a low, pleased moan.

 _Where I belong? I didn’t know you were so sentimental, love_.

The Doctor hissed in irritation (not to mention embarrassment), trying to eject him from her thoughts - only to be interrupted when the Master started to push inside her, causing a brief stab of pain that made him hesitate.

“Hurry up,” she said, and rocked forward impatiently, wanting him inside her, but he held back. “Don’t you want to go a little slower?” The Master asked, voice mocking. “You clearly haven’t been doing too much of this yet - I’m not sure you can take it.” ‘ _You delicate little flower'_ _,_ his implication hung, unspoken, in the air. What nonsense.

The Doctor glared, tightened her legs around him for leverage, and shoved her hips forward, forcing him the rest of the way into her. Her fingernails dug savagely hard into the Master’s arms at the combined wave of her sharp, pinching pain and their hot, pressing pleasure, her eyes closing and head tipping back despite the Doctor’s best efforts.

She was distantly aware of the Master using his tight grip on her hair to tilt her face towards him, watching her changing expression avidly, but was far too distracted to bother fighting him on it.

The Master’s warm fingers stroked down her throat and came to rest on her shoulder, thumb rubbing her collarbone slowly as the Doctor adjusted, muscles relaxing. Then he pulled out and slammed back into her, hard enough that she uttered a pained cry as she was shoved several inches across the desk, the distant sound of objects hitting the floor forming a counterpoint to the thump of the Doctor’s fist as it slammed into his shoulder.

“Ouch!” The Master said, not slowing.

“What - _ah!_ \- d’you expect to - _mm -_ get when you - do something - _like that!_ ” The Doctor ground out, panting, gripping the edge of the desk to hold herself in place as the friction burned gloriously through her.

“And here I thought you _wanted_ it rough,” the Master retorted, but he reduced his pace to something slightly more reasonable all the same, the buzz of their mutual pleasure building even quicker for the faint bite of pain.

Moving his hand from her hip, the Master trailed his fingers slowly down her body, making her shudder, before settling over her mound. When the Doctor felt him press against her clit she tried to hide her face in his shoulder, not trusting her expression; but he only twisted the hand in her hair and pulled her backwards, hard enough that her back arched a little, sending pleasure jolting down her spine.

“I want to see you,” the Master said, voice shaking a little as she lifted up to meet his thrusts.

“Tough,” the Doctor answered, turning her head firmly away and feeling the crackle of the Master’s frustration at being denied. It only sharpened the sensations of him moving inside her, the relentless rubbing of his thumb on her clit, the urgency of their shared desire, bringing her closer and closer.

The Doctor pressed up, grinding against him, trying to finish herself off. Letting out a desperate sound, the Master kissed her, quickening his pace until she came around him, crying out despite the need to keep quiet, his unsatisfied need rolling over her in a tsunami - almost unbearable - as the Master groaned into her mouth.

“Come on,” the Doctor said, voice wrecked, temporarily beyond embarrassment, “ _come_!”

“Such eloquence! How could I disobey?” The Master laughed breathlessly. “Oh, wait. _I_ am capable of self-control.” His voice wavered noticeably, belying his words.

Somehow the Doctor _still_ wasn’t satisfied, already squirming impatiently on his hardness and urging him back into motion - even though she thought if anything touched her clit right then she’d scream, and not from pleasure. The Master took her nipple between his thumb and forefinger, occasionally pinching in a way that had the Doctor trying to shove herself further up against him despite the increasing wobbliness of her limbs.

“Stop - mm! Making that _noise,_ I _can’t -_ too much _-_ ” the Master muttered in he ear.

“M’not,” the Doctor gritted out, “making a noise.” Her breath was coming harsh in her own ears - she was still pressing herself tighter against him, wanting to touch every inch of him; he felt so _good_ against her, mind and body.

The Master nudged his auditory processing at her, showing her the little begging whines she was making whenever he pulled away even slightly - openly desperate, utterly humiliating. The Doctor flushed hotly, trying to get herself back under control.

The Master’s hand slid back between them, pinching her clit gently but unavoidably, rolling it gently back and forth. The Doctor tensed with a mixture of lust and wariness, grabbing his wrist warningly. This was not an area where she would welcome rough handling.

But her fears proved unfounded - the Master just kept up the same movement, slow and unbearable, as he fucked into her; winding her up like clockwork, tighter and tighter, closer and closer to exploding at last.

As the Doctor’s mind grew narrow and hazy with pleasure, she caught a glimpse of one of the Master’s thoughts - that no-one, not even her own self, knew what she liked as well as he did. He was horrifyingly correct, and she hated herself a little for it.

The Master buried his face in her neck, letting out a small noise, and the Doctor gave herself over to it entirely, clenching down on him and feeling him tremble. He moved his fingers a little faster, and she climaxed on him again, screaming his name into his skin, entirely devoid of restraint.

The Doctor was shivering as she came down, the Master’s want still burning her from the inside out…hang on. He should’ve come at least once by now, surely. She dragged the Master up by his hair, seeing his dazed, pleasure-drunk expression, meeting his lust-blackened eyes.

 _You cheat! You’re stopping yourself from coming_! The Doctor was far too breathless to speak aloud.

 _Obviously! You can, as we have just established, orgasm far more times than I can. It’s to everybody’s benefit_.

 _Going on about self control,_ the Doctor sent darkly, _you’ve never had any real self control in your life! Don’t know how I fell for -_ “Ah!” The Master ground into her again, the feeling of him moving inside her instantly overwhelming, making her dizzy with pleasure.

 _Time for another, don’t you think?_ The Master sent cheerfully, and pressed her down against the desk, adjusting the angle of his thrusts until he Doctor was gasping and clutching at him. Even so she held out, desperately hanging on to her focus - until it was clear he was suitably distracted _._ Then she struck.

Freezing, he glared down at her. “You-!“

“Turnabout’s fair play,” the Doctor retorted, grinning smugly as the psychic block finished unraveling in her grip. The Master moaned, shuddering against her, a dull flush creeping up his neck.

 _Oh, I’m going to_ ruin _you for that._ The thought was faint enough that the Doctor couldn’t be sure if he’d meant her to hear it.

The Master fucked into her, deliberately hard, and this was why the Doctor hadn’t been able to get enough - it wasn’t _her_ dissatisfaction. She’d had to keep going because _he_ needed it. Now he was dragging her along after him, effortlessly pulling another orgasm out of her as if on a hook.

It was hideously good - he’d held out so long that the Doctor could feel he was intensely oversensitive, every move jolting his nerve endings with electricity, making her writhe in an entirely embarrassing way.

The Doctor was still shaking from her last climax, but it was clear the Master was going to make her come too-quickly _again_ anyway. At least he was now so desperate for her he couldn’t hold back any more : no mocking remarks, no grandstanding, just the Master making overwhelmed noises into her skin as he fucked her - she thought he was trying to muffle them against her throat, but she could still hear him - his fragmenting thoughts spilling over into her head, adding to the overstimulation.

 _Nothing as good as this, as us - can’t take any more - the look on her face - completely undone, ruined - the last chance - got to make the most of it - far too much_ -

They came together, the Master biting down on he Doctor’s shoulder to muffle his scream - gloriously hard - pressing his weight down into her like he wanted to sink through her skin, fuse them together and live inside her. Knees giving out, he collapsed on top of her.

The Doctor could feel the moment gravity took hold, the inevitable slide off the desk beginning, and resigned herself to a hard landing. She was entirely too high on pleasure to bother trying something difficult like standing up.

They ended up in an undignified heap on the floor. Due to a quick grab at the desk the last minute, the Doctor ended up on top, which was at least a change. “Oof!” The Master huffed, wincing, as she smacked into him.

They lay together for a little while, hearts gradually slowing, the Master’s breath tickling her neck. The thought that she should probably leave now started to niggle at the Doctor, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to get up yet.

As ever, the Master was annoyingly quick to recover. _What position next?_ He asked, sliding his hand between her legs to press inside her; bizarrely the Doctor was _still_ aroused, grinding forward on to his fingers and making a keening noise.

 _I take it all back - your stamina is_ phenomenal _. How many times_ can _you come?_

 _I don’t know!_ Another finger slid into her, and the Doctor gasped.

 _You mean you didn’t immediately check?_ She could feel the Master’s bafflement.

 _No! Why would I?_ How much free time does he think she has?

_You have no respect for scientific enquiry - luckily I’m here to help!_

_NO._

The Doctor felt a little panicked at the thought - her arousal just seemed to _keep going_ , it might be _hours_ before she…maybe not _that_ panicked…

 _I think you’ll find the correct response is ‘Yes,_ please _, Master, how generous of you to donate your efforts to making me come’._

Pulling her awareness away from the Master’s irritably - enough to dull the mingled superciliousness and arousal coming off him down to almost nothing (how had she let them get so entangled, she would be feeling ~~him all over her~~ the aftereffects of this for _months_ ) - the Doctor snapped aloud, “In your dreams.”

“ _Often,”_ the Master agreed insinuatingly, briskly rearranging them so the Doctor could sink down onto him again, which she did with a little sound of satisfaction, already missing feeling his reactions in counterpoint to her own.

Gazing down at him, the Doctor braced her hands on his chest. “I’m not sure if I _can_ ride you - my legs are still shaking.”

“Nonsense, you’ve always had strong legs - it’s all that unnecessary running around. Anyway, it’s my turn to lie here and be serviced. I’ve been doing all the work for your - _considerable_ \- benefit, after all.” The Master folded his arms behind his head, making a show of getting comfortable under her.

The Doctor rolled her eyes, but her legs were recovering now - and it would make it easier to get her own back, even if the Master _was_ being tiresome; so she started to move, slowly working out a good rhythm - before stilling again, an excellent idea occurring.

“Move!” The Master demanded, eyes satisfyingly glazed.

“Not until _you_ say please.”

“You must be joking.” the Master’s hands grabbed her hips as he wrapped his will around hers, trying to drown her in sensation, burn her up, get her to give in.

In response, the Doctor strengthened her shields, leant back a little and rubbed her clit, shutting her eyes in concentration - and came satisfyingly fast, listening to the Master’s bitten-off moan change into a sharp sound of frustration as she started to move her fingers again.

Fighting the Master was always such an excellent source of stimulation, the thought of denying him more than making up for not being able to feel more than a flicker of his sensations - and on a purely physical level, it really was so much more satisfying to have something to clench around. She’d have to remember that in future.

“You do realise that I was only just doing this to myself on purpose?” The Master asked. “I don’t- _ah!”_ \- the Doctor tightened her muscles around him, grinning at the Master’s response - “I don’t think this is as effective a punishment as you think it is.”

“I’m denying you control, not orgasms. You’re not going to be able to hold out for five minutes,” the Doctor said cheerfully, opening her eyes again. The mixture of desire and anger on the Master’s face was _truly_ inspiring.

When the Doctor came the second time - only to begin again, smiling down at him - the Master’s grasp on her hips became vicelike, fingers digging deep into her flesh. _That’s going to bruise_ , she thought happily.

“Any time you want to start moving, feel free,” the Master said through gritted teeth.

“Say please.”

“Oh, come _on!_ ” The Master glared.

“This is payback, you know.”

“Oh? What did I _do_? Make you bend the knee? Beg for mercy? Actually say my damn name for a change?” He watched her closely. “Humiliated you in some way, clearly! Well done future me.” The Master smirked. “Did you like it?”

“What?”

“ _Did you enjoy_ ,” he said, drawing it out, “me humiliating you?”

“No!” The Doctor’s face felt hot.

The Master laughed. “Thought so!”

The Doctor narrowed her eyes and clenched down deliberately hard, rocking a little on him, moaning in deliberate provocation.

“ _Doctor!_ ”

“Not what I asked for.”

The Master braced his hands on the floor, pushing up as if to try and roll her under him, but the Doctor slammed him back down again, pinning him in place.

Naturally, he only looked utterly delighted, squirming under her. “Playing rough?”

“Say it.”

“Never.” The Master twisted his arms, testing her grip.

This time around, the Master was solid where the Doctor was wiry, which made holding him still a little more of a challenge than usual - she had to lean far forward, hanging over him, using her weight to hold him down properly.

He glared, sides heaving, and tried to rock up into her. The Doctor could feel him relishing the pressure of her hands, even so. The Master always liked losing more than he ever wanted to admit. Or perhaps he just enjoyed provoking her into using physical force; getting her to impose her will on him so crudely.

“Who’s enjoying it now?” She asked. At his lack of response, the Doctor added, “ _Say it.”_

“ _Fine!_ ” The Master’s mouth twisted sourly. “ _Please._ ” It was ridiculously overacted, but the Doctor had asked for the word, not sincerity. And she wasn’t _him_ , to insist on belabouring the point.

Shifting her grip so she could move and still keep him pinned, the Doctor started to ride him, and he moaned in satisfaction, eyes fluttering shut. She moved slowly, deliberately dragging it out, until the Master opened his eyes, glaring at her irritably for a moment, before smirking and saying “Come on love, put your back into it - fuck yourself harder! I want to see at least three more orgasms this evening!”

“How are you so annoying no matter what we’re doing?” The Doctor replied, speeding up a little despite herself.

In her distraction, the Doctor had forgotten to try and maintain a psychic distance, and they were twining together again already, the Master’s pleasure going from a faint burn at the edge of her mind to an overwhelming conflagration, combusting her every nerve, her willpower curling up and flaking away like burning paper - until she forgot to hold him down, to keep things slow, anything but chasing their shared pleasure until they burnt up together at last.

The Doctor flopped forward, body limp. Luckily, the Master caught her before their heads could slam together, his palms pressing against her shoulders, holding her up, her hair hanging round his face. Leaning down, she kissed him again, lingering over it; she was humming with enough pleasure, their minds so close, that it almost deceived her into feeling affectionate towards him again.

When she pulled away, the Master had that strange look in his eye again - the dazed pleasure that had been radiating off him disturbed by whatever lay beneath…something that the Doctor couldn’t quite see - the way you could detect movement far below you in deep water by the cold currents it stirred up. She breathed in, tasting smoke on her tongue - harsh and acrid, with an odd metallic undertone.

"The old offer still stands, you know,” the Master said softly “we rule, half the universe for you, half for me, to do with as we please.” He slid his hand over her mouth before she could reply. “Your half can have the Earth.” There was a dreadful smile on his face. “And mine can have Gallifrey. No - don’t answer me yet.”

The Doctor shook her head, his hand slipping from her face. The smell of smoke had grown so strong that she wondered for a mad second if he was on fire.

“When-“

“You’ll know when.”

“How do you know,” the Doctor said, “the time you’re thinking of isn’t in my past?”

The Master studied her face. “It isn’t. Don’t ask me how I know,” he added.

What had provoked _this?_ It had been…rather more than a thousand years since he’d last made her that offer. (‘ _Our home, razed to the ground_ ,’ he’d said earlier.)

“You haven’t found some _other_ horrifying super-weapon, have you?” The Doctor tried for a smile, but knew it couldn’t be much better than his.

The Master sighed, closing his eyes. “Not exactly.”

That was ominous.

“Master…” The Doctor trailed off, unsure of what to say, feeling a fine tremor go through him.

“No point discussing it further now,” the Master said, “just…remember.”

She had the sense of the Master shoving something away, forcing it down; he grinned suddenly, mood changing like a flipped switch. The Doctor let out a small squeak of surprise when he twisted their bodies, rolling her onto her back.

“Now!” The Master said, tone falsely bright, kissing her sternum in-between her hearts and sliding down her body, “let’s find out the answer to this pesky multiple orgasm question!”

The Doctor tensed, about to protest the change of subject, before realising that she was actually about to start arguing him out of giving her orgasms - talk about cutting off her nose to spite her face. The Master was clearly bound and determined not to give her any useful information; if he was so keen to get her off, why not take advantage?

This resolution was immediately strengthened by the sensation of his mouth revisiting the mark he’d made on her thigh, the pleasure-pain making her squirm a little. She slid her hand slowly up the back of his neck, feeling the smooth prickle of the fine hair there against her fingers.

The Master kissed the curls between her legs, and she shuddered at the feel of his breath on her. Curling both hands into his hair, she dropped her head back against the floor and let him work.

“Enjoying yourself?” The Doctor asked, pointedly, after a few moments.

She knew he was, could feel the Master’s gratification at her pleasure - which intensified it - which intensified his satisfaction - recursion upon recursion, going round and round.

She just wanted to hear him say it.

 _Stop fishing for compliments,_ the Master replied, thought rich with amusement, and did something that made the Doctor gasp and arch off the floor, kissing her until she came again, shockingly fast.

And apparently _he wasn’t stopping._

 _Why would I?_ He asked. _You seem to have misunderstood the nature of the experiment we are running._ The Master’s hands tightened pleasurably on her thighs. _It is, however, important to try several variables._

* * *

_I really must congratulate you on this spectacular new talent of yours; I am enjoying it_ immensely. _By the way, I think that must be at_ least _twenty in my favour now._

_You cheated - I declare the results invalid. And it would be twenty-three of mine to four of yours, anyway, so it would only be nineteen - stop laughing!_

_In that case, I must insist on once more._

_What? No!_

_No, no. I want my nice round twenty points._ The Master removed his mouth from her neck, and leant down to take her nipple between his teeth once more; she moaned quietly, her fingernails digging pleasurably into his back.

 _We’re going to have to change the system anyway,_ she told him, squirming a little, _it's now weighted in your favour to a ridiculous degree._

 _You say that like it’s a problem,_ the Master retorted, and pulled her up against him, kissing her studiously, slowly working her up with fingers and mouth until she came again at last.

It left her limp on the floor, trembling in every limb. “I don’t think I can move,” the Doctor sighed, letting her head drop back onto the floor with a dull thud.

“Don’t worry,” the Master said, settling his weight over her, hitching her leg over his hip as he slid back into her, “your participation is not currently required.”

The Doctor could feel the Master enjoying how spent she was, enough so that he only had to expend a little effort to keep her pinned exactly the way he liked her. It felt…really good, actually - almost relaxing, in a way their encounters usually weren’t.

The Doctor struggled a little against his grasp, purely for the principle of the thing, before going blissfully limp under him and letting the Master fuck her exactly the way he wanted to - relishing the way it sent a shiver of excitement and satisfaction rolling through him when he felt her give in.

He kept kissing her and kissing her, looking directly into her eyes, his hands running all over her skin, invasively thorough - seeming as impatient to caress the back of her knee or trace the line of her shoulder blade as to touch anywhere more conventionally erotic.

The familiar sensation soothed the Doctor further; the Master was always eager to get his hands on her again after she regenerated (she had always strongly suspected the existence of some sort of creepy mental map of her various proportions over the years).

 _I’ve missed this,_ the Doctor thought, too hazy from satisfaction - both physical and mental - to prevent the Master hearing her.

An odd look slid onto his face, twisting it, and he hastily leant down to kiss her collarbone, shaking a little. The Doctor pressed a little deeper into the Master’s mind, curious, and his satisfaction and pleasure abruptly cracked under her touch, revealing the deep, sick, exhausted misery underneath it, despair to the point of unreason.

That was...different. Worrying. She felt wetness on the skin of her neck. Was he _crying?_ Digging further, (a violation of privacy, but-) the Doctor only discovered more of the same, and started to cast about for the cause. The question slipped out without her meaning to.

_What’s wrong?_

Instantly, the Doctor kicked herself - no more sympathy. Not for him.

But the Master flinched minutely against her, mind and body (she wouldn’t have been able to tell if they hadn’t been so close to one another, almost fusing) and jerked away, painfully fast, snapping his inner shields back up before she could see _why_.

The Doctor grabbed him just before he could pull out of reach, staring, baffled, at the Master’s ripped-open expression. It was as if she had expected to dig her fingers into whole flesh and had instead found herself tearing at a gaping wound. It was…unsettling. She didn’t like hurting him by accident. She wanted all her hurts to be deliberate, wanted to be able to give them proper thought beforehand. Not that she usually got the chance with him; she got far too caught up in the fight.

That awful smell of smoke was back again as they stared at each other, frozen; strong enough to make her cough a little, and the Doctor suddenly realised: it couldn’t be a real smell. It must be coming from him - a sense-memory so intense it was bleeding through their connection, muddling her senses with phantom odours. Yet another strangeness to add to the list, then.

Really, she should just…leave, ignoring whatever this was, (force down her weak partiality, her dangerous propensity toward offering him far, far more than he deserved) but the look on his face…

“Master, I…” The Doctor hesitated, considering. “Come back here,” she said at last, pulling him back down against her, his muscles rigid under her hands, not-quite resisting. The Master settled on top of her, letting his full weight press her into the floor, crushingly heavy, his expression now unsettlingly blank.

The Doctor kissed him again, careful, and the facade cracked almost immediately, a look of misery briefly stark on his face. He screwed his eyes shut for a moment, breathing shaky, smoothing his face back to detached amusement, as if nothing had happened.

A little relieved noise came out of the Doctor when he returned to fucking her - the Master being so careful with her at first that it was almost off-putting; but when she kissed him harder, determined, he broke quickly, grinding her down against the floor harder and harder with each thrust, forcing her breath out in soft huffs, kissing her devouringly, before pulling back to look at her.

“ _Now_ ,” the Master ground out, a demand so harsh it twisted into a plea. “Come again for me _now._ ” Holding the Doctor’s hips with shaking hands, moving her with him insistently, eyes burning into her, watching, waiting for her to break.

“I - I can’t-“ She was worn out, for goodness’s sake, he couldn’t expect-

“ _Yes, you can!_ Come _on!_ ” The Master pressed raw sensation down the Doctor’s nerves - deliberately too much, enough so that it was a little painful.

Embarrassingly, his insistence worked where mere physical stimulation would have failed, and she came, arching against him and crying out his name, muscles trembling with fatigue, listening to him whimper quietly against her throat. The Master followed her quickly, murmuring her name into her skin in an almost pleading tone.

Judging from his expression when he leant up over her a few minutes later, he was either steadier now or capable of convincingly faking being so - which the Doctor supposed was almost the same thing, at least as far as the Master was concerned.

The floor was really starting to dig into the Doctor’s back, and she was opening her mouth to say something along the lines of ‘Well, this was nice, but I must be going,’ when the Master kissed her, persuasively enough that she settled again, relaxing into him despite her better judgement.

* * *

“Definitely worth putting up with all that nonsense earlier,” the Master said, at last.

The Doctor laughed quietly, stretching a little. “Why _did_ they rush off like that?”

“Ah, you weren’t listening - as usual. You have only yourself to blame,” he said, watching her. It sometimes seemed to the Master that he was forever watching the Doctor; she was the war he could never win, and he couldn’t seem to stay away.

The Doctor was warm and open and relaxed against him (smiling even!), and the Master was caught between wanting to bask in the warmth of her attention while he still could, and being unable to endure it any longer. Because she wouldn’t allow him this, if she knew what he had done - if she knew what he now knew.

And because it was false, and always had been, even if unknowingly. (And even the thought of her having always known the truth, and never told him - of _that_ being the real source of her endless claims to superior understanding-)

The only hope he had left was that when the Doctor did know, she would feel the same anger he had….powerful enough to consider his offer. To want vengeance. To finally shatter her endless bloody virtue enough to come around to his way of approaching the world. He’d tried hers, after all. (And look how well that had gone.)

The Doctor pinched his arm lightly, clearly annoyed at his abstraction.

“Tell me,” she demanded.

The way forward was suddenly completely clear. He was going to enjoy this.

Probably.

“Oh, I cut the connection to MI6 for a few agents - probably only forty or fifty dead as a result. Barely worth it, really.” The Doctor recoiled, which was the goal, and not in the least upsetting.

“ _Forty-“_

“Or fifty!” The Master watched the horror on her face, smiling faintly, “You _did_ ask me to get rid of him…and don’t worry! Their technology is hideously primitive - they’ll never know it was me!”

“I’m surprised you didn’t ‘get rid of him' earlier then - if it was _so damn easy.”_ The Doctor snapped, rolling to her feet and grabbing for her clothes.

He laughed, getting to his feet more slowly, pulling on his trousers. “So you could shout at me and and leave, keeping up the pretence that you didn’t come here wanting anything else - as per usual? I think this worked out much better for the both of us, don’t you?” The Master asked, raising his voice slightly as she moved away from him, shoving her feet into her boots as she went.

The Doctor - fastest dresser in the galaxy, ever eager to leave - sonic'd the door open and stormed out without answering. The Master yanked his shirt on and pursued her.

She turned to face him, and they glared at each other, breathing hard. The Master leant forward slightly, hand coming up to -. The Doctor glanced over his shoulder, whirled round, and sprinted down the corridor. He stared after her in surprise.

“Ahem.” The cough was instantly familiar. He shut his eyes and breathed in and out slowly, trying to rein in his temper, before he turned to face C.

C took in his disheveled appearance, then his eyes slid over to his office door, looking at the disarray of his office. The Master could almost hear the gears grinding, very slowly, as the head of MI6 finally managed to connect his current state with his odd behaviour earlier and, unfortunately, came to the correct conclusion.

“O! Was that a _woman_?”

The degree of astonishment that the concept of any woman willingly associating with him apparently caused C was really quite offensive.

Can’t kill him yet, can’t kill him yet…

“With that degree of perspicacity I’m honestly surprised you survive,” the Master retorted, not in the mood to keep up the charade.

He watched the ill-disguised pleasure on C’s face at the thought of finally being able to get rid of this thorn in his side. C had wanted to give him the boot for years, but the Master had always been careful not to give him any excuses that would stand up to scrutiny. Humanity had tied itself up with far too many rules saying you were not allowed to fire people just because they annoyed you personally - and the Master had gleefully exploited them all.

“O, this is a serious matter! Who…”

The Master tuned him out, wondering if the death he had planned for C was painful enough. A bit too quick, really. He’d have to rearrange everything else to change it, though. Decisions, decisions…

“…Might have seriously compromised….”

He couldn’t believe the Doctor had managed to get him sacked (again) - and for what was, essentially, workplace misconduct. He was going to have to make sure she never, _ever_ , found out about this. (The plan didn’t come into it. The Doctor was _not_ going to know.)

“…I regret to say we will have to let you go.” C finished, tone entirely devoid of regret.

The Master turned to walk away.

“Wait, man! I’m trying to talk to you.”

“And here I thought I was fired,” the Master replied over his shoulder - and left, ignoring C’s spluttering.

Lucky that he’d already made copies of all the files he thought might be useful for his research on the Doctor’s origins. The Master made a mental note to wipe any traces of her visit from MI6’s charming attempts at surveillance equipment, as well as backing up the video recordings from his own security devices in his office. You never really knew who was spying on you, after all.

* * *

It wasn’t until the Doctor was setting the controls for Gallifrey, (just another one of his games, of course, but he’d been so…she _had_ to check) that she realised what had felt so wrong about their earlier encounter. It had felt like a last time: too final - like he was trying to get his fill of her; drink her in before she was lost to him. It was an unsettling thought; he generally acted like the only end to their contesting would be him killing her - which he never seemed able to actually follow through on.

But she wouldn’t think of him any more, it wasn’t worth it: she would check on Gallifrey to…to make sure - and return to her Fam. The Master would surely remain trapped in the Kassavin realm for a little bit. It would be safe to cast him from her thoughts for a while, settle and recentre herself before she had to face him again. He always did seem to manage to throw her off-kilter, get under her skin in ways she wasn't proud of - despite her very best intentions.

The Doctor opened the Tardis doors, and smelled smoke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Naively, I thought this was an implausible (and hence suitably alien) number of orgasms to have in one sitting, but I did some research…and 60+ is apparently possible (!) The More You Know indeed…
> 
> The super-weapon line references Colony in Space, wherein the Master:  
> 1) Threatens to shoot the Doctor & Jo dead  
> 2) Knocks them out with a gas & uses Jo as a hostage to force the Doctor to be his guide  
> 3) Finds the star-destroying weapon he came looking for  
> 4) Immediately turns to the Doctor and says: _“Doctor, why don't you come in with me?…Think of it, Doctor, absolute power! Power for good. Why, you could reign benevolently, you could end wars, suffering, disease…Consider carefully, Doctor. I'm offering you a half-share in the universe.” ___  
> Master, why are you _so bad _at courtship? The more things change…__

**Author's Note:**

> Y’know what else would have been in that MI6 file the Doctor read? Any intimate relationships.
> 
> I firmly believe that:  
> 1) The Doctor & co. ate all the Master’s biscuits while using his Tardis  
> 2) The Doctor has an antigravity bra to go with her infinite pockets.
> 
> My first fic, and I wisely decide to debut with 10k of Doctor/Master smut. I swear, it was supposed to be a short oneshot…  
> I am (slowly) working on a longer kind-of sequel to this, about the Master ‘Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind’ing himself post Timeless Children. Why should the Doctor get to keep all the memory loss to herself, after all?


End file.
